The living room was dark, save for the blue-lit churn of bodies on the TV. Naruto lay perpendicular to the couch, head hanging just off the armrest, feet propped on a coffee table scattered with his mother's latest home improvement catalogs. Minato sat in the old armchair, legs crossed, eyes flickering between the game and the closed laptop on his knees. The only other light was the orange blink of the wireless router, which had been threatening to die for the last three years but never quite gave up.
The two of them watched basketball the way men who loved each other but didn't always know how to say it watched anything: with a comfortable silence, punctuated by casual insults, snacks, and the occasional groan at a missed layup. Minato had brought down a half-bag of chips and a pint of grocery store salsa; Naruto's hands were already dyed orange from both.
"Guy's all left foot," Minato observed, voice pitched low so it didn't compete with the color commentator. "See how he telegraphs the drive?"
"Uh huh." Naruto shoveled a handful of chips into his mouth, then pointed with the mangled end of a tortilla. "If he had any confidence in his jump shot, he'd just pull up from the elbow."
Minato grunted agreement. It was a sound Naruto recognized from childhood, one of three responses his father cycled through in conversation: the grunt (agree), the huff (disagree), and the rare, quiet laugh (all other emotions, mostly withheld).
They watched another two minutes, chips dwindling, when the doorbell rang—a single, protracted buzz that vibrated through the floorboards. Minato looked at Naruto. Naruto looked at Minato. They both pretended not to be hoping the other would get up.
Kushina, from the kitchen, hollered, "Naruto, be a doll and get that!"
Naruto peeled himself off the couch with the grace of a sloth exiting a tree, wiped his hands on his jeans, and trudged toward the foyer. The bell sounded again, more insistent. Through the glass panel, a silhouette hovered—a woman's, tall and composed, hair swept into a neat black twist. She waited with a patience that, for all its elegance, suggested she would not hesitate to break in if left too long.
He opened the door. "Hi, Mrs. Uchiha."
Mikoto's smile was as precise as the rest of her. "Naruto, dear. You're grown!" She placed a hand on his shoulder, a touch just forceful enough to remind him who'd taught him to throw a punch. "I always knew you'd be special. You look so much like your father, but with more personality."
He let himself be steered inside, aware that the energy in the room shifted instantly with her presence. Minato stood, straightening his shirt, the wariness in his face fading into a reluctant warmth.
"Mikoto," he said, offering the rare, quiet laugh, "I see Fugaku let you out unsupervised."
She accepted the jab with a nod. "He's on a call with Europe until midnight. I escaped while I could." She scanned the room, then turned to Naruto. "You're here for the weekend, then?"
"Just until Monday," Naruto said. "Then back to the grind."
She tsked, the sound delicate, and moved toward the kitchen. "Kushina! I brought that wine you liked, the one from that awful Napa trip—"
A delighted shriek from the kitchen, and then the two women collided in a blur of hugs and laughter. There was a flurry of words—"You look amazing," "Oh, please," "I'm just glad the men aren't running the place into the ground"—and then the kitchen door swung closed, voices muffled but never entirely silenced.
He looked at his phone, which sat on the end table, silent. Still nothing. Sasuke had not replied to his last three texts, nor his single, carefully un-emoji'd email. There was a part of Naruto that wanted to throw the phone out the window, and another part—the bigger part—that was afraid the next notification might be the one that changed everything, for better or for worse.
Minato must have noticed the glance. "Problems at work?" he asked, feigning casual.
"Nah. Just, uh, waiting on a call from a friend."
Minato nodded, and they both knew it wasn't worth digging further.
Just as Naruto was about to relax into the game again, his phone erupted with a shrill ring. He fumbled for it, nearly knocking over his soda. The screen flashed with Sasuke's sleeping face—dark lashes against pale skin, lips slightly parted—a photo Naruto had snapped one dawn while watching him breathe. Minato leaned forward. "Your friend?" His father's eyes drifted toward the screen. Naruto's heart lurched as he twisted the phone against his chest, thumb smearing desperately across the display. "Just work," he muttered, feeling heat crawl up his neck.
Minato's eyebrow lifted a fraction, his mouth settling into a thin line that wasn't quite disapproval but certainly wasn't belief. He reached for his beer, took a slow sip, then returned to watching the game with a deliberate focus. Naruto escaped to the porch, closing the door behind him before clicking the answer button.
He listened to the ring. Once, twice, then the sharp click of a call connecting. Sasuke's voice, a half-octave lower than usual, came through the line: "Hey Dobe."
Naruto exhaled, a mix of relief and residual panic. "I've been checking my phone every five minutes. Three texts and an email, Sasuke. I thought something happened to you."
A pause, then, "My phone died completely. Just got it to turn on at the airport charging station." The ambient noise of announcements and rolling luggage filtered through the line. "Flight's delayed another hour."
Naruto spun, looping back toward the porch steps. "You could have just borrowed someone's phone. I thought you'd chickened out."
Sasuke's sigh crackled through the line. "I'm sorry I didn't call earlier. I was going to use the company phone, but Karin was hovering, and I didn't want anyone at Uchiha Corp to start asking questions. Not yet." The background noise shifted as he moved to a quieter spot. "I'll do better next time, I promise."
Naruto pressed his forehead against the cold porch column, phone cradled to his ear. "You sound exhausted," he said, noticing the slight slur in Sasuke's usually precise speech. "Have you slept at all?"
"I'm fine," Sasuke replied, though his voice cracked on the second word.
"That's not what I asked," Naruto said softly. "When was the last time you actually slept?"
The line went quiet for a few seconds—just the hush of the connection and the chirr of night insects. Then Sasuke sighed, the sound staticky through the phone. "I've taken a couple cat naps. Twenty minutes here, thirty there."
"Jesus, Sasuke."
"I'm going on about twenty-four hours now," Sasuke admitted reluctantly. "But I'll sleep on the plane."
Naruto scuffed his foot against the porch, watched a moth circle the bulb overhead. "You better. I need you coherent tomorrow, not passing out in my mom's pancakes."
Naruto gripped the phone tighter. "So what's really going on? You don't just skip sleep for a delayed flight."
"It's nothing."
"Bullshit. You're the guy who once fell asleep standing up during finals week because 'sleep is non-negotiable.'"
The line went quiet except for Sasuke's measured breathing. "I have something to tell you."
"Tell me now."
"It needs to be in person."
Naruto's stomach dropped. "Is it bad? Are you sick? Did something happen with the company?"
Naruto's fingers tightened around the phone as Sasuke's voice came through, soft but firm. "It's important. But I need to see your face when I tell you."
Naruto swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His free hand found the porch railing, gripping it for support. "Fine," he managed, the word barely audible over the thudding in his chest. "But if you're planning to—"
"Trust me. Just for tonight."
Naruto closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. "Okay." He leaned against the porch railing, the wood cool against his palm. "So when you get here—"
A garbled announcement blared through the phone, drowning out his words. "Flight 372 to Chicago now boarding at Gate C19. All passengers please—"
"Shit, they're calling my flight," Sasuke said, voice suddenly rushed. "I have to go."
Naruto straightened, gripping the phone so hard his knuckles whitened. "Wait—" His voice caught. "Text me when you land, okay? I don't care if it's three in the morning."
A soft exhale came through the line, the kind of breath Sasuke always took when he was fighting to keep his composure. "I miss you," Sasuke whispered, his voice rough at the edges. "I miss your stupid face." There was a pause, then so quietly Naruto almost missed it: "I love you."
Naruto's throat tightened, the ache in his chest spreading like watercolor. He turned away from the porch light so no one could see the dampness in his eyes. "I miss you too. So much it hurts." He pressed his forehead against the cold column, as if the distance between them might somehow collapse. "I love you too."
There was another announcement in the background and Sasuke hung up. Naruto pressed the phone to his chest, the sudden silence crushing him. His thumb traced the screen where Sasuke's voice had been seconds ago, a poor substitute for the touch he craved. The night air felt colder now, emptier, and Naruto closed his eyes against the ache that spread from his lungs to his fingertips—the familiar hollow feeling that always came when Sasuke wasn't there.
The porch door creaked open behind him. Naruto whirled around, phone still clutched to his chest, to find himself blinded by the sudden flood of light from the house. As his vision adjusted, two silhouettes materialized: his mother Kushina and Sasuke's mother Mikoto, each gripping a half-empty wine glass, staring at him with identical wide-eyed expressions. The words "I love you too" seemed to hang in the air between them, suspended like dust motes in the golden light.
Kushina burst onto the porch like a game show host revealing a prize. "Naruto Uzumaki! Did my ears just hear an 'I love you'? At this hour? On THIS porch?" Her eyes sparkled with the manic glee of a mother who'd just won the gossip lottery.
Naruto fumbled his phone into his pocket so fast he nearly dislocated a finger. "It's—uh—work stuff."
Mikoto glided forward, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. "Work stuff that makes you blush like a tomato?" She winked at Kushina. "I haven't seen cheeks that red since your father proposed."
Naruto's brain short-circuited. "It's—it's a client. From Tokyo. Very important. Time difference." His hands flapped in front of him like distressed birds.
Kushina's eyes narrowed, her mouth curving into the smile that had extracted confessions from him since kindergarten. "A client who makes you press your phone to your heart like a Victorian maiden with a love letter?" She nudged Mikoto, wine sloshing dangerously. "Did you hear how his voice went all soft at the end?"
"Mom!" Heat crawled up Naruto's neck as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's complicated, okay?"
Mikoto's lips twitched, eyes knowing. "Well," she said, setting her mug on the rail with deliberate care, "whoever has you whispering 'I love you' at time of night must be quite special." Her gaze held his for a beat too long. "We look forward to meeting them tomorrow."
Kushina exchanged a look with Mikoto, then drained her wine glass. "It's getting chilly out here. Let's continue this conversation inside where it's warm." She turned with a knowing smile and headed for the door, Mikoto following with one last curious glance at Naruto. He hesitated, phone still warm in his pocket, before trailing after them with slumped shoulders.
The moment Naruto stepped through the doorway, Kushina pivoted and planted herself at the foot of the stairs, one arm braced against the banister like a tollgate operator. Her wine glass tilted precariously in her other hand as she blocked his escape route.
"Where do you think you're going?" The hallway light caught the mischief in her eyes. "I heard an 'I love you' out there. Who's the mystery person?"
Naruto's mouth went dry. Behind her, Mikoto leaned against the wall, arms folded, a smile sharp enough to cut glass. There was no escape.
"Kushina." Minato's voice came from the kitchen another beer in hand, "It's late. Let him breathe."
Kushina opened her mouth to protest, but Mikoto laid a hand on her arm, a silent communication passing between them. "He's right, Kushina. Boys are like soufflés—you can't poke them too much or they collapse."
Naruto blinked. "That's not how soufflés work."
"All the more reason to be careful," Mikoto said, but she smiled as she guided Kushina back to the kitchen. "We'll be on our best behavior tomorrow, Naruto. Tell your lady friend not to be nervous."
Kushina winked at him before disappearing into the kitchen, where the sounds of uncorked wine and whispered speculation picked up at twice the previous volume.
Minato gestured to the TV. "Game's still on. Want to finish it with me?"
Naruto nodded, grateful, and sank into the couch, the cushions still warm from his earlier occupancy. Minato sat in his armchair, remote balanced on one knee, the only light now the flicker of the late-night sports broadcast and the neon pulse of the router.
They watched in silence, each minute stretching longer than the last. Naruto wanted to say something—anything—but every phrase dried up before it hit his tongue. He counted the seconds, the steady tick of the wall clock, the rise and fall of his father's breathing.
At halftime, Minato reached over and snagged the last handful of chips. "I'm proud of you, you know," he said, eyes on the screen. "It's not easy to make a life for yourself. Or to choose the hard things."
Naruto felt the words settle into the cracks of his chest, warm and heavy. "Thanks, Dad."
"I talked to Fugaku last week," Minato continued, as if discussing the weather. "He said you and Sasuke were working on something together. Big project."
Naruto's mouth went dry. "Yeah. The adaptation. It's… complicated."
Minato nodded, his gaze never leaving the screen. "That Uchiha boy," he said, and Naruto braced for whatever came next, "was always a good rival for you. Pushed you to be your best. Sometimes I think we all need someone like that."
Naruto swallowed, fighting the urge to spill everything right there, to confess every secret he'd ever carried. But Minato, sensing his son's battle, just smiled—a small, private thing—and let the silence take over.
The game ended. The victors were crowned, the losers sent packing, and Minato clicked the TV off, plunging the room into a soft, echoing darkness.
He stood, stretching, and rested a hand on Naruto's shoulder. "Whatever happens tomorrow," he said, voice low and sure, "I'll always have your back. Even against Fugaku."
Naruto looked up, his father's hand steady and warm, and in that moment he felt like a kid again, safe and anchored. He nodded, unable to trust his own voice.
Minato squeezed once, then turned toward the stairs, footsteps light on the wood. "Get some sleep, Naruto. You'll need it."
Naruto stayed where he was, the room still buzzing with the words unspoken. He stared at the black screen, his own reflection faint and ghostly, and realized that for the first time in years, he wasn't afraid of what tomorrow would bring.
He padded up the stairs, past the kitchen where Kushina and Mikoto whispered and giggled over another glass, past the gallery of childhood photos, and into his old bedroom. He lay on the bed, phone clutched to his chest, eyes fixed on the familiar cracks in the ceiling.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour. He listened to the comforting rhythms—the pipes, the laughter, the gentle thud of his father moving around overhead.
And as the silence deepened, Naruto felt the last of his fear slip away, replaced by a hope so bright he almost couldn't look at it.
Tomorrow, the world would change. But tonight, he was home.